Absolution
by sinking815
Summary: To absolve means to set or declare someone free from blame, guilt, or responsibility. For Gale Hawthorne to find absolution, forgiveness needs to be given. Unfortunately for him, his old friend needs to give it and for Katniss Everdeen, forgiveness does not come easy... After Mockingjay. G/K, T for now.
1. Chapter 1

Absolution  
sinking815  
April 26th, 2014

* * *

_A/N: Feeling inspired tonight to write. I sat down to try my hand at some "Divergent" fiction after listening to the soundtrack for the past two hours, and strangely, this came out instead. Excited for where this seems to be going, so if you're venturing into this, buckle up and bottle your patience. I've decided Suzanne Collins' trilogy is incomplete. And I needed to finish it._

* * *

"_I just want to set you on fire  
__So I won't have to burn alone,  
__Then you, then you know  
__Where I'm coming from" ~rihanna, "fire bomb"_

* * *

He had tried so hard to not come back.

The last time he had laid eyes on his home district, the cinders of chaos and the ashes of the dead threatened to suffocate him. And that was from up in the hovercraft, hundreds of feet between him and the ruins below. If he could still feel the heat of the firebombs and the choking smoke of their detonation all this time afterwards, he couldn't even understand her ability to walk through the thick of it all.

Her…

He can't even think the name without his throat closing down. The gnawing that constantly pulses in his chest rises like an incoming tide, fast and without warning, its ceaseless agony attempting to drown him with every incessant wave.

Gale reaches for his drink, and throws back the remaining clear liquid. He winces against the burn as the alcohol rushes into his stomach, but welcomes the physical pain against the emotional onslaught. His head falls back to the cushioned seat and his hand automatically reaches for the call button. The attendant hurries over as quickly as she can, jostling some other passengers in her effort to reach him.

"Another one," Gale growls, and when her wide doe eyes harden at his brusque tone, he adds quietly, "Please."

She turns to fulfill his drink with an affronted air, but Gale is immune to women and their fragile feelings. He's turned down so many, he's learned not to care. In District 2, his reputation has gotten so bad that girls will warn newcomers who have him in their crosshairs at a local dive.

"Don't even bother with him," they say. "He's still hung up on well… you know."

And they do know, which had always surprised him how fast the word spread that the cousin ruse was just that, a ruse and nothing more. From there, the rumors started coming fast and furious. The whys and what fors compiling until everyone had distilled the theories down to that single damning reason.

"Were they…?" and the hushed whispers that filled in the rest spoke volumes.

The attendant returns and it's all Gale can do to not grab the drink from her hand like a vicious mongrel after some fresh meat. He does drain it in two wonderfully harsh swallows, handing it back as quickly as it arrived.

"Thank you," he says, his eyes blurring from the sting.

She makes some noncommittal noise and sashays away, clearly still offended at his lack of respect.

Gale leans back in his seat, and can't find it in himself to care.

The liquor starts to course through his veins and quell the fire ablaze in his chest. He's ever so grateful for the distraction from his thoughts and dives into that haven, letting it wash over him like a balm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice from the past reminds him how similar they've become. He grits his teeth against the ghost and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until the blackness flashes with red and yellow spots.

A ding sounds from above and static echoes throughout the cabin.

"Attention ladies and gentlemen, we have begun our final descent to District 12. All tray tables must be locked and all personal items stowed…"

Gale tunes out, leaning over to look out the small window of the aircraft. Below he can see a map of his old home and his eyes dart through the familiar streets as if chasing memories. He sees the town square has been reconstructed. Scaffolding surrounds the new Hob, its skeleton framework rising from the dark ashy ground like a fledgling phoenix. His gaze travels a worn route so ingrained in his mind that he starts when his eyes fall on the outskirts of the district. The Seam has formed, still infantile but reborn.

He knows somewhere down in those newly constructed buildings, she's there.

Gale looks away, his chest heaving with a sudden panic. He stares at the back of the seat in front of him and wills his heart to slow.

How many years has it been? Three, no, four - Five? Five years.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply once for each year he's tried so hard not to come back.

* * *

There's a general buzz of excitement in the bakery today. Though she stands behind the counter, though people mill about her like busy bees swarming the newly opened flowers of the spring, she feels strangely distant from it all.

Well, not strangely. She's been distant from every other soul since the war. Five years of emptiness has left her hollow and aloof to any other feeling than the monotony of existing.

And that's what she does best. Exist.

So she measures flour for breads, and cake batters, and cookie batters, and switches to sugar for the icing, but she doesn't feel the grainy texture beneath her fingers, doesn't smell the pungent smell of yeast or the sweet aromas wafting as the mixer turns. She just watches the batters churn until her mind is numb from the counting.

Two for cookies.

But numb is good.

Four for doughs.

Numb doesn't hurt.

She's reaching for the next scoop when a hand stills her arm, and she looks up into Peeta's blue eyes. They sparkle at her, and she blankly wonders how he still manages to find energy for this world. It used to make her angry, but now, it deflects off her like a glancing blow.

"Katniss," he says gently, "Hazelle's here."

He pauses as if anticipating some reaction. The most he gets is a nod as she sets down the measuring cup and turns away from him. He doesn't know that she sees the slight fall in his features at yet another disappointment. One day, she thinks he might learn.

Then she sighs, realizing this is Peeta and his hope is inexhaustible.

It makes her weary thinking of it.

"Hello," Hazelle greets her warmly, though her gray eyes track Katniss warily. She doesn't ask how Katniss is doing, and for that, she almost wants to thank her.

Even back before things turned awkward, she and Hazelle had some uncanny ability to communicate with each other. At times, she was more a mother to Katniss than her own. More than once, Hazelle had read the tension in her brow or the twist of her fingers and offered to relieve that anxiety Katniss was feeling. Katniss doesn't have to wonder why Hazelle's never reached out since.

What would there be to say?

So she turns her mouth up the best she can, and offers a less than heartfelt greeting in return.

"I'd like to order some cupcakes, please," Hazelle says.

"Sure," Katniss says, automatically reaching for a cardboard box. "How many?"

"Two vanilla, two marble…"

Katniss reaches for the baked treats, arranging them neatly in the box. Four cupcakes, four people. A thought flits quickly through her mind that sparks a fleeting curiosity as to the occasion. With food and money more plentiful now, it isn't unheard of for people to splurge for no apparent reason. Unless you're Seam-born. Old habits and all that.

"…and one chocolate."

Her hand freezes over the last cupcake. Shock waves course up and down her spine, her senses on high alert, the hair on the back of her neck rising. Her eyes meet Hazelle's of their own accord and some kind of recognition zips between them.

Five cupcakes.

For five people.

Suddenly, it's a different pair of gray eyes that Katniss is seeing.

Her heart rockets into her throat and her vision tunnels, constricting with the heat. A kind of ice-like dread starts in her middle and rushes outward to quell the burning on the fringes. She's melting and boiling with a surge of emotion and her body can't compensate to return her to ground zero.

After so long of not feeling anything, this ambush of anger, and horror, and regret spill over until the roaring in her head is unbearable.

She steps back and the chocolate cake falls to the floor, its molten center spattering the floor.

"Katniss, it's ok," Hazelle says, reaching across the counter.

But Katniss backs away. She's not seeing fudge staining her shoes, but something just as thick and dark. The molten insides of a little girl and the liquid gray of an old friend.

"Katniss, it's not real," Peeta says.

No, she thinks, this is real. Because she's not having a flashback to the arena.

She rips her apron off and rushes out the front door of the bakery, needing to run from the current nightmare.

There's only one reason Hazelle orders five cupcakes when only four Hawthornes live in District 12.

He's come back.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive! I am not dropping this story I promise. I have written this chapter as it comes to me rather than forcing it out. I have a lot of emotional investment in to writing an extension/fourth book, epic epilogue to the Hunger Games and doing it well so I am at the mercy of when the words want to flow. Thank you so much for those who continue to review my stories as fitfully as they start and stop. You are all so encouraging and I want each update to be worth the wait. _

_Absolution  
__Sinking815  
__October 11__th__, 2014_

"_You know you came from it,  
__And someday you'll return to this  
__Elm-shade red-rust clay you grew up on." ~florida georgia line, "dirt"_

* * *

His eyes wander the newly constructed town square. He can see the brightly colored awnings, the fresh paned glass storefronts, the smiling faces drifting up and down the sidewalks.

Gale promptly stumbles off one of those said sidewalks and is nearly run down by a car. He grimaces and raises his hand in apology but he still sees the angry shake of the driver's head when the car whips by.

Gale thinks he is amused at how new that experience is to him. He's walked this square so many times in his previous nineteen years of residence and never once had the pleasure of falling off the curb into oncoming traffic.

The solid resonance of his boots on the cobblestone path sounds more sure and steady to his ears than did the crunch of dusty gravel. There's an aura of permanence in this square, one that was obviously vacant when buildings and lives settled by the wayside beneath ash.

He frowns at the clean smooth stones beneath his feet and wonders if they have street sweeps here too.

Of course he realized that District 12 had changed. That coming back would be the same in some ways and different in a lot of others.

Change was inevitable, his twenty-five years of life had taught him that much. But Gale never thought that his deliverance would be as well.

He had put a lot of time and effort into circumventing Paylor's attempts to bring him back.

At first, she had tried subtlety, claiming one of the districts was in desperate need of the leading director of the Rebuild. He'd claimed he'd take a look when he had time, only to later find that District 12 was the title of the file. Paylor found every single folder promptly returned before her office opened the next day.

Then, she tried guilt trips. The longer he refused, the more she pulled on his personal ties. She'd never say her name outright. No, that was the quickest way to ensure his negative response. But Paylor soon recognized that though Gale's heart ached to see his family again, his bullheadedness about her staved off the longing for a family reunion.

After three months went by without any pleas, hints, suggestions, or prayers, Gale was beginning to think he had won.

Until four days ago, he opened the sealed file he found waiting for him on his desk.

**Director Hawthorne:**

**You presence is mandatory during the renovation and reconstruction of the mines in District 12. Enclosed you will find your travel documents and overview of the building schedule. Expenses will be paid in full.**

**I am done asking nicely.**

**Regards,**

**President Paylor**

**PS: Sorry.**

And so Gale finds himself walking streets he only intended to walk in his worst nightmares and his best dreams. His feet still remember the winding way to his old house, but it shocks him when he sees the new building in its place nonetheless.

The late afternoon summer sun glints off the pristine siding with a lazy haze. The shutters are all present and painted a beautiful charcoal, the edges clean and crisp. It's bigger but not boastfully so, and though Gale was instrumental in reviewing the construction plans, he still can't reconcile his old memories with this new reality.

He thinks there may always be a part of him that will only see the gray.

The breeze blows gently down the street just like it always did, but instead of stirring up thick dust, it catches the lilac ribbons on the summer wreath on the front door. The purple bow is a perfect complement to the decoration, full of green and daises and life. Except for one yellow flower that draws his eye, its vibrancy almost so brilliant it casts a shadow over its neighbor flowers. Gale steps closer to peer at it and the familiar scent of its petals makes him backpedal with visceral panic.

Suddenly, that same flower is delicately tucked into the golden hair of two long braids. He tries not to let his mind's eye catch the little girl's own bright blues but she does and she smiles.

He didn't realize that flower was real. Alive when all the surrounding white was false.

But his heart pounds, his palms sweat, and Gale knows all too well that his horror is real and he needs to find his nerve but he's not going to find it standing staring at the namesake of that little girl.

He drops his small bag at the door and takes off, running for the one place that will always be a refuge in moments of crisis.

Gale runs until his lungs burn, until his eyes tear, until his sweat slips in rivers down his back. He runs past faces he might recognize if he slowed. He runs until his head beats with the rhythm of his heart and his pain is tangible spasms in his legs and chest. He runs until he expects a barbed electrified fence to stand in his way and stop him.

Gale doubles over in the middle of a meadow in full summer bloom. The sun is hot on his back and sweat runs into his eyes when he looks over his shoulder to see if a little girl's ghost has followed. Nothing sways behind him except that grass dotted with purples, and yellows, and white. He chokes on a sob of relief and forces himself to stand, his chest still pumping with the dregs of terror.

Then he sees the gravestones.

Boulders of varying size haphazardly spread across the Meadow like sentinel troops quietly manning the fallen they represent. It's breathtaking and not in a good way.

Gale turns his head left and right, but they stretch every which way he can see.

He is surrounded by death in a field of life.

A tranquil calm settles over Gale and he thinks that this is just some otherworldly feeling that graces a person that finds themselves immersed in a sea of lost souls. He thinks that if he just embraces it and wades through the stones that nothing will rise to trap him amongst them. That he can sneak his way through without the baggage he desperately does not want to carry.

As he walks, it strikes him that his eyes are actually seeking a name. Some of the stones are empty faces and he can only imagine a face that it hopes to represent. Some stones are engraved, most names familiar to him, but the countenances he remembers just bring a sadness bubbling beneath his simmering panic.

The past five years have taught Gale the difference between sadness and grief. Sadness is passive, an emotion you certainly feel, but it's like a choice. You can shut it off. Grief is active, an encompassing wave that drowns you despite the time and place you find yourself in. There's no rising to the surface.

The next stone is different than the ones before it. The name is been painted on with a beautiful flowery script. There are no dates to bookend the life of the girl it quietly lays for. Brilliant yellow namesake roses tied with handmade twine have been placed carefully so as to adorn the name, not obstruct it.

He falls to his knees to touch the name and those flowers.

_Primrose Everdeen_

Gale thinks he's been drowning for five years now.

The tears come hot and fast, and Gale feels as if he's being ripped in two. He is not a stranger to feeling completely and utterly helpless, but the level he feels now is the blurred line between helpless and hopeless. He wants her back. He thinks it would be so much better if he could just bring her back. This pain would simply melt away and he could hold her and whisper how sorry he was and is. How he would do anything to give her back. To personally deliver her to Katniss.

Gale goes hollow at the name. He stares at the gray stone and sees her gray eyes instead. He hasn't thought her name for this very reason. He's entranced and haunted and when he hears her voice, it holds the same malice it does in his dreams.

"Get. Up."

He thinks this is horribly cruel that his mind can recreate her voice in such perfect detail at the mere thought of her name.

But a twig snaps beneath a booted foot and a shadow spares him the heat of the sun on his head.

This is not a dream.

"I said get up!"

Gale looks up to see Katniss for the first time in five years, and finds himself at the end of her arrow and fury instead.

_~Fin_


	3. Chapter 3

_Absolution Chapter 3  
__Sinking815  
__March 16__th__, 2015_

_A/N: Wow, this chapter has taken for-freaking-ever. Probably because I've had to guard my own heart against all this pain and strife. This is not how I expected it to turn out but alas, this is what my subconscious conjured up. So sorry for the long wait. As always, reviews greatly appreciated._

* * *

"_I keep going to the river to pray,  
_'_Cause I need something that can wash out the pain,  
__And at most, I'm sleeping all these demons away,  
__But your ghost, the ghost of you, it keeps me awake." ~ella henderson, "ghost"_

Katniss wonders what people would think if they knew she sat out in the woods for hours talking to the ghost of her sister. Probably nothing good. She thinks they'd say she needs therapy, or grief counseling, or to be readmitted to a hospital watch like she was in Thirteen. It wouldn't matter, anyway. It never helped then, and it wouldn't help now.

Not that she even wants to be helped.

There's an ache and a sadness that doesn't completely overwhelm her into a catatonic trance when she perches on this ledge and loses herself in the greenness of the valley below. But there's also a strange sense of comfort and peace. Like she and the woods are grieving together for the same missing presence. For once since the death of her sister, Katniss feels a connection to the world again, a tenuous attachment on her sanity that she doesn't want to lose.

Besides, Peeta would never make her do anything she didn't want. He'd be the white knight and vouch that she was doing better. She knows he would argue vehemently that if she wanted to talk to a ghost in the woods, then why stop her? It wasn't hurting anyone.

Except him.

She could see it in his wounded look whenever she truly met his gaze. How much he wished he was enough. But then the world crashes down around her when a primrose takes her by surprise, or when she wakes in the night screaming for her sister, or when someone mentions Gale and she visibly flinches, and she knows then that Peeta is not enough.

She thinks she may want him to be though.

Five years is a long time to tell herself that someday things will be better. Someday, Peeta will once again be the hope that she leaned on so heavily during the Games.

_You leaned on more than just Peeta._

Katniss looks up to see her sister shimmering no more than a few yards away. Instinctively, she rises to her feet the way she always does when Prim comes to visit and steps toward her. Just once Katniss thinks she can reach her. And just as she always does, Prim moves back the exact number of steps Katniss takes forward.

Her big blue eyes watch Katniss with a meaningful pity, as if the little sister knows a sobering truth that the older sister cannot possibly understand.

_You know why you find peace here._

Katniss grits her teeth with such force that the enamel grinds and her jaw shrieks at the friction of her frustration.

Because Katniss does understand why there's comfort in these woods. Deep down, she knows the reason for the sense of relief she feels whenever she visits their old spot. It's easier to shoulder grief with another, even if his presence is just as ghostly itself.

"He destroyed you, Prim!" she wails. "He destroyed you!"

Her voice cracks at the end and suddenly, the fragile handle over her emotions is flung across the field. Katniss makes another desperate lunge for her sister, succumbing to her prior hysteria and falling to her knees in a tumultuous shudder. When she looks up, her fingers are stretched out, reaching for solace in the fading apparition.

Prim shimmers before her, and Katniss can't tell if it's a product of her blurred vision or a trick of the light, but for a brief moment, she thinks Prim reaches back, passing her outstretched hand as if she doesn't see its frantic reach. Prim's little thumb moves gently in the air and Katniss thinks she feels a tear swiped from her cheek.

_In all of Panem, you both may be the only ones who believe that._

Katniss blinks, and Prim disappears.

* * *

Katniss doesn't know how long she's been kneeling in tall overgrown grass, but the soaked pants over her knees make her think it could have been a while. She doesn't remember the shift of the summer sun, or the slow sleepy chirping of the crickets as late afternoon settled around her.

When she stands and brushes the dirt off her pants, her thighs scream in protest and her skin tingles from her hips to her toes. She hobbles a few steps, her joints stiff after enduring an extended solitary position. Her head feels heavy, her memory foggy, like she reaches for the last fragments of a dream that she knows she had, but can't remember the necessary details.

So, she collects her bow, unused and discarded, and she walks.

Katniss feels the muted existence of every day life slowly descend with every step back towards the meadow. The heat of a nascent sunburn along the back of her neck fades to lukewarm the closer she gets to the district. The cool dampness brushing her knees becomes less joltingly noticeable with each stride. Her emotions settle to tepid, almost detached in their less volatile state. She doesn't hear the crunch of twigs beneath her boots, or care to track the skittering squirrels that dart along before her.

When she reaches the edge of the forest, harsh summer light floods her vision and she's forced to bring her hand to shield her eyes. They take their time to adjust, testing her patience so much that she walks several steps partially blind.

But then her vision focuses and her eyes instantly find a figure bending over Prim's grave. His hair is dark and she thinks he hides his height in the way he's hunched. She moves forward, a strange mixture of curiosity and nervous energy swirling within her. Surely, Rory is still helping with the reconstruction at this hour of the day, she thinks. And yet, there's something vaguely familiar that reminds her of the second eldest Hawthorne…

Katniss blanches.

Her heart races into a painful pounding rhythm in her chest, at first driven with fear then melding into an aggressive beat.

First, he's had to shock her with an unannounced return, and now he's visiting Prim's grave?

Her thoughts turn sour.

Her hand reaches back to pull an arrow from her quiver and she nocks it with practiced fluidity. She stalks forward, her tread falling lightly, the wisping of the taller grass barely audible to her ears. Some older version of herself cautions her that she's never been able to sneak up on Gale and does she really want to face him like this, but her vision is red at the edges and her mind is already focused on her prey.

He doesn't even notice when she's ten feet from him.

"Get. Up."

Gale freezes but makes no effort to move, and Katniss grits her teeth to keep from screaming. She steps forward heavily, with a menacing intent if he had raised his head to see it.

"I said, get up!" she grits out.

The tip of her arrow wavers precipitously as she tracks Gale's rising motion. He's staring at her like he's never seen another person before, regarding her with equal parts wariness and wonder. She watches his hands raise defensively, palms out, and his surrendering posture makes her rage flare.

Katniss draws back the string threateningly, but instead of flinching away, he drops his hands and his shoulders sag in defeat. He keeps his eyes on her though, the gray suddenly dull and lifeless.

"Go ahead," Gale chokes, his voice hoarse and rough, and it makes Katniss think he _knows_ she wants to shoot him.

She frowns, and her brow knits together, her fingers trembling to let all the tension loose, as her mind works furiously to understand how he cannot see her in five years and the first instant he does, Gale can read her like he never left. She quickly gives up trying to understand, and starts to see in his despondent gaze how untroubled he is, how relieved he is to be at the deadly end of her aim. It occurs to her that he might _want_ her to shoot him.

That's when she notices the fresh wetness along his cheekbones, the red swollen eyes, the uneven breaths wracking his usually steadfast frame. This isn't the friend she knew who hid his pain in layer after layer of anger and brooding. She doesn't like that he's decided to wear his misery on his sleeve, to display his grief like it's a burden he can't carry anymore.

It infuriates her that though she almost doesn't recognize him, she understands exactly how he's warped into this weakened version of his former self.

Katniss hates that, after all this time, Gale still reflects her so well.

So she lets loose her arrow.

Gale hears the snap of the bowstring before he feels the zip of the arrow's flight past his neck. He's too close to react, but something thrums inside brilliantly alive and he turns quickly away, though he knows how futile it is to escape Katniss Everdeen's aim.

He feels the sharp twinge of pain and presses his hand to his neck. His palm comes away smeared with hot blood, and he can only stare at his own liquid life for so long before he feels dizzy and sick. He looks up and Katniss' eyes are wide like she's the one who's been shot, no trace of enraged huntress to be found anywhere on her face.

She drops her bow and is at his side in an instant, her own small hand pressing to his neck, and she's muttering so fast, he can't understand the individual words of her apology.

"It's fine, you missed me," Gale says. He steps back so that her hands fall away, and gently probes with his clean hand at the wound. It stings beneath his fingers, but he can feel the tackiness of the already forming clot in the superficial cut. The collar of his shirt is stained red, some dots of blood dancing lower down his chest.

Gale turns away and locates her arrow laying in the grass not far behind him. He holds its out to her, tail first, and asks, "Want another try?"

They hold each other's gaze for an indefinite moment. She's regarding him with nothing but disdain, her gray eyes smoldering in fury, her cheeks flushing pinker whether from heat or anger, he doesn't know. She scowls at him, wrenching the arrow from his grasp hard enough that he raises his hands again defensively.

"I didn't miss," Katniss hisses, her tone dripping acid.

Her outrage is almost comical, and he fails to suppress an amused grin.

"Of course, you didn't." Gale's lips turn upwards into a smirk, as if this is some big inside joke. As if Katniss really had missed, and it's all some huge mistake they'll laugh about for years to come. His mind doesn't yet want to let him consider that she actually intended to shoot him. "You're an ace with arrow, Catnip, but…"

"STOP!"

Gale jumps a little, the grin falling from his face instantly.

"Just stop trying to pretend this is all a game to you!" Katniss whips her arm to the side, gesturing wildly to the numerous stones scattered throughout the meadow at her back. "This place is a graveyard now. Or did you forget in the last five years?"

Gale's fists clench in anger at her accusation and his brow creases in fury. Forget? _Forget?_ He's been spending the past five years trying to forget with no success. He certainly never set foot in the two arenas, but running from the fiery consequences of her actions left him scarred and broken too. Forget? Never.

"Don't lecture me," Gale sneers, his voice dangerously calm, "Remember, I _watched_ this place become a graveyard. I had front row seats. I got your family out."

Her mouth twitches ever so slightly, but he can see that he's wounded her with the memory. That she can see exactly what the last five years have done to him written all over his face. She buries his pain in her own.

"A lot of good that did Prim," she says acerbically.

The unspoken blame permeates the scorching air between them like poisonous fumes, its odor pungent and bitter. Gale stares woundedly at Katniss, who stares back just as wounded. Their collective misery makes him want to scoff. Even broken, they are the same.

But her words sting, and the raw wounds he had been revisiting are still fresh, so Gale can't find the common ground that lets her words glance off him.

"What do you want me to say to that, Catnip?" His voice rises at the end, desperately seeking to strike some chord in her hardened shell. He can feel his mask of anger starting to slide, and the overwhelming tremors of new grief bubbling underneath.

Katniss regards him, her gray eyes seeing the tumultuous emotions before her and softening. She hesistates against some vicious counterattack she had on the end of her tongue. He watches her stuff her arrow back into her quiver, stow her bow over her shoulder, and face him with a sad look.

"Don't call me that," she whispers. "She doesn't exist anymore."

Katniss pushes roughly past him, her braid bouncing against her shoulder as she leaves.

Gale watches her go, wondering why, after five years, he still has to restrain himself from reaching out to touch the midnight brown tail.

~_Fin_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I'm still alive, and still intending to write this, I promise. Hopefully, you wonderful readers can find it in yourselves to forgive my untimely updates. I must admit, the story is in my head, but I'm finding It harder to write than expected. If you can find it in your gentle hearts to review, I still love to hear your feedback._

* * *

"_In dreams, I meet you in long conversation  
We both wake in lonely beds in different cities  
And time is taking its sweet time erasing you  
And you've got your demons, and darling they all look like me" – taylor swift, "sad beautiful tragic"_

* * *

The more she rubs her hands together, the stickier her palms become. His blood and her sweat. The way they mix and linger on her skin with tacky resilience is infuriating. And unnerving. Prophetic crosses her mind and Katniss snorts at her own paranoia.

In all actuality, her salt and his protein really was just simple chemistry. Though, that thought leaves her stomach twisting with a different kind of sick feeling.

Eventually she stops trying to rinse her hands clean and just ends up standing under a hot stream of water. The heat prickles against her skin, almost unpleasantly so, but she welcomes the distraction.

"Katniss? You home?"

She hears the front door shut heavily behind Peeta. If the shower water wasn't beating down on her full bore, she knows she'd hear his keys tinkle when he hangs them on the hooks near the entrance. She takes a deep steadying breath and is surprised when her voice doesn't tremble.

"Up here!"

She hears his feet run up the stairs and the gentle knock on the door frame even though she's fairly certain she left the door wide open.

Five years of living together and Peeta still insists on being the perfect gentleman.

"Come in, Peeta."

"How long have you been in here?"

Katniss sighs and shuts off the water. Out of habit, she wrings out her braid before pushing back the shower curtain.

"Uh," Peeta stutters when he sees her. Katniss almost thinks she should blush except Peeta's next words instantly remind her why that wouldn't make sense. "You took a shower with your clothes on?"

Glancing down at herself, Katniss shrugs as if showering with her clothes on isn't the least bit unusual. In her rush to clean_ his_ blood from her hands, she thinks how the thought to undress hadn't even crossed her mind. But to explain that to Peeta would only raise questions she didn't particularly care to answer, no or… ever.

"They were pretty gross too," she answers nonchalantly.

"Katniss."

The way he sighs her name, exasperated, makes her flinch.

Please don't make me talk about earlier, she thinks. Please don't make me…

"Look, about earlier this afternoon…"

Now, she sighs, angry.

"I don't want to talk about this, Peeta," she snaps. She pushes past him, her shoulder bumping his own hard. Grabbing a towel, she roughly untangles her braid. The triple ends fling water about the small bathroom as she pulls viciously at her hair. A hand gently stills her own. She looks up to worried blue eyes.

"If not now, Katniss, then when?" Peeta asks. "It's been five years."

His sad intent stare makes her chest constrict with guilt. The weight of the last five years feels oppressively heavy on her narrow shoulders. Katniss swallows hard, the emotions of the day plugging in her throat. Frustration and anger break through first and Katniss wields them like a shield.

"You think I don't know that? I have relieved Prim's death every day for the past five years! I know _exactly_ how long it has been!"

"But you still haven't moved past any of it," Peeta says, his voice rising. "You can't keep going on like this, Katniss! You can't keep running away like you did today!"

Katniss flinches, his words stinging though she knew he spoke the truth. The backs of her eyes burn and her chest refuses to expand to let her breathe and the blood pounds in her ears. Peeta tries to comfort her, but she backs away. If he touches her, she'll break apart into a million shattered pieces.

For a moment, they both stand there, letting the pain throw its temper tantrum, letting the words die in the corners. Peeta starts to speak again, then thinks better of it and leaves the bathroom.

Katniss sinks onto the floor, her clothes cling to her, their dampness settling coldly against her skin. She shivers, but doesn't move to take anything off. Peeta is back before she has time to think. He bends to his knees in front of her, his hand cupped around something she can't see.

"You know I would do anything, _anything,_ to bring Prim back for you. But I can only do so much," Peeta says. He reaches out to grasp her hand, pressing the hidden object into her palm. Though she resists, he doesn't let go immediately. "The rest is up to you."

He releases her, and at first, Katniss only scowls at him. Finally, her curiosity gets the best of her and she looks down to see the golden locket Peeta gave during the Quarter Quell. She doesn't want to open it and see the three faces that only remind her of what the Capitol stole, but her hands don't seem to obey. The locket springs apart and Katniss stares.

Numbly, her eyes hold the beautiful pale blue of Prim's, the blonde locks of her hair, the soft curve of her smile. She chokes on a sob, and sees an older and sadder reflection in her mother. It's been five years since Katniss has spoken to her too.

Lastly, she looks at her former friend and her brow scrunches at the word. No, she thinks, not friend. Her relationship with Gale was far more complicated than that. Friend was such a simple label, and she and Gale were never simple. His expression in the photo is strong, determined even. Not at all, like the broken man she had seen in the meadow. Not for the first time, Katniss thinks she may be staring into a mirror. She shuts her eyes and presses her lips together as the grief rolls back in, fresh and raw. Tears fall from her cheeks and she feels Peeta slide himself next to her.

"Hazelle says Gale is here to oversee the Rebuild," Peeta says, softly. "She thinks he's going to be here for a while."

She lets Peeta's arm slide around her and doesn't even try to stop the tears from coming.

"You have to find a way to forgive him, Katniss," he continues. "If not for his sake, then for your own."

Peeta presses a kiss to the top of her head, and his fingers brush away the wetness on her left cheek.

"Please just try."

Not trusting her voice, all Katniss can do is stare at the locket and nod. There is still blood in the corners of her nails.

* * *

Gale's home-coming is almost as dramatic as Katniss'.

"Where in heaven's name did you go?" Hazelle cries, when he steps into the kitchen.

"Hi, Ma," he says in response.

Though much shorter than her eldest son, Hazelle still can make Gale feel like he's looking up at her even when he's looking down. She waves a towel at him accusingly, while stirring a large pot with her other. He watches her cover the stew, but not before his nose breathes in the familiar scent of pepper, parsley, and something more robust than rabbit.

"Rory comes home to find your bags on the porch and you nowhere in sight," she says, coming to stand before him. Her eyes wander frantically over his tall frame, working their way from the bottom up, before widening when she sees the blood on his shirt and the fresh cut on his neck. "Gale Hawthorne, what happened?!"

Gale fends her off when she tries to dab at the wound with her no-doubt unclean towel, and tells her the truth.

"Katniss shot me," he says simply.

Hazelle's eyes widen once again, her mouth sputtering with questions. "But… How, why? What?"

"I was feeling overwhelmed," Gale admits, purposely omitting the tiny little detail of his drunkenness upon arrival to the district. "So I went to the woods and ran into Katniss. And then she shot me."

"Did you talk to her?"

Gale snorts and rolls his eyes. Of course, his mother would ask something so inane.

"She made it very clear she didn't want to talk when she aimed her bow at me, Ma," Gale scoffs. He turns away, his hands searching for a glass, and filling it with chilled water from the refrigerator. He's momentarily glad to see that she had installed his gift to her after all.

"Well, at least she missed," Hazelle says.

"Katniss doesn't miss," Gale mutters. He throws back the water in three quick gulps, its iciness a refreshingly sharp contrast after the sweltering heat of the summer afternoon.

Hazelle frowns, and Gale is instantly aware that she had chosen not to voice the similar disturbing thought. Katniss' eyes flash dangerously in his mind. The acid tone and how she practically spat the words at him. The resignation and momentarily welcomed relief he felt when she had pointed her bow at him. He doesn't like how unnerved he still feels over the whole incident. So in typical Gale fashion, he brushes it off with humor.

"I'm sorry, I won't ever leave my bags abandoned on your porch again," Gale says, opening his arms for a truce.

Hazelle walks into them. When she squeezes him tight, he knows she's forgiven his error. If only humor worked the same on Katniss, he thinks.

Posy and Vick burst into the kitchen a second later, and Gale bends down to scoop them up in his arms. For the first time today, his mouth cracks into a truly genuine smile. Posy breaks away first, straightening to her full height. She's up past his waist now and her long dark hair hangs halfway down her back, though he's glad to see the innocent sparkle still in her gray eyes.

"Gale I've missed you," she squeals.

"I've missed you too, squirt," he says, reaching out to gently pinch her nose. She wrinkles it at him, and giggles in delight.

"You always do that," she says, mock-scowling.

"Because you always let me," he teases.

"Are you here for good?"

Gale turns to face the deep voice and is startled to see its owner in Vick. His brother has grown rapidly too. Gale can tell by the way his shirt hangs on his lanky frame, but his shoulders have broadened, and his face is less round. Gale thinks it's hard to believe that Vick is almost sixteen.

"Not for good," Gale says, honestly, then quickly adds when Posy's face falls, "But for a while."

Posy beams up at him, but Vick fixes him with a near-level cautious look. Before Gale can reflect on that observation, Rory enters the kitchen. He's almost as tall as Gale, and if Gale didn't know any better, he would swear he was looking into a mirror. Rory's dark hair is sticking in various directions, still damp from his shower, but Gale catches the dust and dirt staining in the crevices of his younger brother's hands. No wonder Rory is almost as muscled as him. Mining thickens sinew in no time.

Gale's heart suddenly aches at the sight, a flood of déjà vu when he was underfed and overworked, his own hands cracked and rough from his pick and shovel. Despite his best efforts, Rory still works buried in the earth. He thinks he should try to talk to Rory about his career choice before he leaves.

Rory regards him warily and mumbles a greeting that doesn't sound very welcoming. In the few rare times that Gale had come to visit, Rory initially had been openly hostile only segueing into borderline indifference and avoidance as the years passed. As if Gale hadn't already lost his best friend during the war, it seems he had lost a sibling as well.

Once again, Catnip, Gale smirks, yet another way we are alike.

"Well don't just stand there," Hazelle says, pulling Gale from his train of thought. "Get yourself to the table."

Gale walks to the table, feeling slightly chagrined, and as he pulls up a chair, thinks how strange eating dinner with his entire family feels. But as his siblings dig in to what Gale is relieved to see is in fact actual beef stew, he also rationalizes his discomfort with the time spent away and the events of the day.

His neck burns when he swallows.

* * *

The following morning promises to be just as hot as the previous day, but that doesn't deter Katniss from keeping her unspoken promise to Peeta. So she finds herself down at the remnants of the old Hob, trying to dig through the rubble and pain, striving to find a solid foundation to rebuild upon.

She can feel the skin in the groove of her thumb chafing and rubbing against the grain of her shovel's handle with each load she dumps into the wheelbarrow at her side. There's dust and grime, charred wood and some unidentified objects she probably doesn't want to name. The backs of her arms burn and sweat drips into her eyes so often she's lulled herself into a pattern. Shovel, heave. Shovel, heave. Swipe. Shove, heave. Shovel, heave. Swipe.

It's brutal work under the blazing sun, but Katniss welcomes the pain. Her mind stays occupied, and she is ever grateful for that.

She's not sure how long she's been sifting through the ashes of the old Hob when she hears…

"If you're going to work so hard, I can at least put you on the payroll," Gale says. He flips through some papers on his clipboard.

Her eyes wander the flush of heat on his tan skin, inevitably falling to the angry red slice on his throat. Now that it's no longer oozing, she can see the wound is not very deep, but she thinks it still might leave a scar. Her mind races, thinking she should bring him some willow bark, or at the very least, check and make sure Hazelle has some in stock. Then, Katniss scowls wondering why she even cares if Gale's precious neck is marred for eternity.

His gray eyes are watching her intently, and she feels a hot flash of anger burn away the guilt.

"No," Katniss says sharply. "I don't want the money."

"It's not Capitol money, Katniss," Gale says.

She doesn't like the way his eyes plead with her to just accept the offer. Even more, she doesn't like the way she almost is compelled to give in.

"I said no!" Her voice rings sharply around the work yard and a few nearby volunteers look over at them.

Gale sighs. It's not like he hadn't expected her rejection, but he feels like he's bashing his head into a brick wall. The dull throb behind his eyes pounds endlessly.

"What are you doing here then, Katniss?" he asks. He can't help the exacerbation that adds a little bite. Is she just trying to make him miserable? Is this some kind of retribution he's going to have to deal with throughout his stay?

She fixes him with something worse than reproach, before her features melt into a look of non-expression. He feels his heart twist in his chest, and recognizes the mask that slides across her face. She's hiding from him.

"The sooner this Rebuild is over, the sooner you can leave."

She says the words without emotion, but they cut deep nevertheless. Gale refuses to wince in front of her. She stares at him, seeing but unseeing, and Gale senses yet another impasse.

Sighing loudly, he reaches for her abandoned helmet, chucking it at her roughly.

"Wear your helmet, Everdeen."

The hard plastic stings Katniss' palms when she catches it, her carefully constructed indifference cracking in surprise at his sudden burst of emotion. When she looks up, she thinks she might apologize for being so mulish, but Gale is already halfway across the yard. His name sticks in her throat, and she's glad no one can hear the strangled noise that attempts to call out to him.

Instead, she swallows awkwardly, places the helmet on her head, and returns to shoveling.

_~Fin_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Wow, it's been waaaay too long. Between moving and beginning a new job and finally getting a weekend to myself… This finally had to come out. I'm hoping repeat viewings of Mockingjay Part 2 will encourage the rest of this story to be written at much more than a snail's pace. All my great readers deserve that and so much more. Here's hoping you guys are still so patient with me and kind with your reviews._

* * *

_i thought if I could touch this place or feel it,  
__this brokenness inside might start healing  
__out here it's like I'm someone else  
__i thought that maybe I could find myself  
__if I could just come in, I swear I'll leave,  
__won't take nothing but a memory  
__from the house that built me." ~miranda lambert "house that built me"_

* * *

Gale lets the anger drive his pace and his direction. Hard furious strides that angle him sharply away from the Hob. He doesn't see the worried faces of the volunteers and the employees that watch their new leader rage through the few piles left of the old black market's remains. His footsteps stir the dust and ash into the air until they swirl behind his back, mocking his escape and re-settling with finite permanence. His clipboard falls heavily from his hand, its papers bent and half-buried.

"Mr. Hawthorne!"

He walks on.

"Mr. Hawthorne!"

Something catches Gale's arm on its backswing. At first, he shrugs aggressively against the fingers that wrap around his wrist. His hand flies back with the ferocity of his movement, the backs of his knuckles wrapping against warm stone. Gale turns, his own expression just as shocked as the boy who clutches the blossoming red mark on his cheek.

"Your clipboard, sir…"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Both choke on words spoken too little, too late. Gale curses inwardly, as he takes the proffered clipboard. The boy's arm falls awkwardly, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his blue eyes wide with shock and awe. He can't be any older than Vick, though even at full height, he stands much shorter.

_Come on, Gale. Keep your shit together._

Gale kneels to the boy's eye level. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," Gale repeats, gently pulling the boy's hand away from his injured cheek. The redness is already fading, and Gale blows out a long breath. With any luck, his strike wouldn't leave a mark. "Do you have any ice at home…?" He fumbles, trying to remember but failing to recall a name.

"Tomas," the boy supplies. "Tomas Watson."

Gale nods.

"You get yourself home and get some ice on that," Gale instructs. He tries to smile. It feels more like a grimace. "I'll make sure you get paid for the full day."

"Yes, sir," the boy says, nodding smartly. He turns, gathers his too-large helmet lying in the rubble a few yards back, and only then risks a glance back.

As their eyes meet, Gale finds himself hoping Tomas doesn't think to spread the encounter among his friends. The last thing Gale needs is the people rebuilding 12 wondering about his own stability. But Tomas smiles, a twisted little smirk that eases Gale's fear. The memory of their meeting will be just that – a memory.

As the boy scampers off, Gale straightens out the crumpled pages on his clipboard. His eye is drawn immediately to her name. The letters chafe against his corneas and Gale growls in frustration, stalking forward once again, albeit at a less disastrous pace.

It's been less than 24 hours since he walked through the rebuilt streets of the square, but for the first time, Gale truly sees a resurrection of life. The remaining citizens of 12 mill about the cobblestones, their faces still stern, and yet somehow softer. Lighter. Happier, Gale thinks.

He watches a mother gently admonish her two young children as they chase each other about her skirts. Chocolate ice cream streaks across the young girl's cheeks, her sweet treat bobbing precariously with her short choppy strides. A melodious chime signals the arrival of more happy customers from the refurbished candy store onto the cobblestone streets.

Gale squints at the brightness of it all. As he walks past Peeta's bakery, and Bell's bookstore, and the newly constructed bus stop, he doesn't know what to make of all the freshly painted colors, the shining new windows, the carefully stenciled fonts. He tries to see this place in his memories, but all the images come up in black and white and dust.

A familiar scent catches Gale's attention and he almost double-takes at the sign hanging on the wrought iron post out front of the establishment when he reads the name written in a dull sort of gold.

_Greasy Sae's Tavern_

Peering through the windows, he can see the rustic charm that reflects so well the memory of one of his best customers. The interior is dark, but soothing from all the cheer and glitz of the square. There's the ancient large cauldron she brewed tirelessly at, sitting over a stone hearth fireplace surrounded by a worn wooden horseshoe bar, and Sae herself doling at bowls as she always does in his memories. When his stomach rumbles, Gale wonders if he's still smelling wild dog stew and decides he better find out. The slow creak of the heavy wooden door is fittingly haunting for his entrance.

Sae looks up to welcome her new patron with a toothy grin. A grin that fades, falling with sudden surprise when her gray eyes recognize Gale.

"They were saying the prodigal son had returned," Sae says, the smile returning and shrinking her eyes to narrow lines of joy. "But I still don't believe my eyes."

"You quoting scripture at me now, Sae?" Gale asks, sliding into a seat at the bar. He nods slightly at two men he thinks he should remember but doesn't.

"Ahh, now you would know that's not scripture if you had ever opened the book," Sae says, waving her spoon chastisingly.

"Couldn't afford one."

Sae's rheumy eyes tighten again with mirth.

"That never stopped you."

Gale huffs at this and raises his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"No come back?" Sae asks mockingly. She turns back to mind the stew once more, shaking her head bemused. "Gone all soft on me Hawthorne, what's District 2 doing to ya?"

_It's not District Two…_ Gale thinks. Ever since he landed in Twelve, he feels like he's been sliding around on thin ice, struggling to stand against the emotional winds buffeting him about. His stomach roils with nerves, but Gale pretends like it's just hunger that is making him so queasy, and not the fact that this conversation is starting to feel like he's walking into one of his own snares. "So what's a fellow gotta do to get a drink around these parts nowadays?" he asks.

"Ask," Sae quips, though she's already moving to pour him a thick frothy beer.

When she slides the drink and a bowl of stew in front of him, Gale raises his eyebrows at her, all skeptical and assuming, earning him another wave of her spoon.

"Looks like you've gone a little soft yourself, Sae," he says. The stew is warm and gamey and nothing at all like beef. It makes Gale more at ease to know some things have indeed stayed the same.

"Now don't go spreading rumors…" she warns him.

"The same way you didn't spread any about me." The words are out of his mouth before he filter them, and immediately images of jealous eyes watching Katniss and him walking through the Seam come to mind. From the same wistful look in Sae's eyes, he knows she's thinking the same thought.

"Those weren't rumors," Sae says, a little gruffly.

The emotion in her voice surprises Gale somewhat. Granted he had always suspected Sae got off a little fantasizing that his friendship with Katniss would inevitably develop into something more. Hell, when his own feelings started bubbling a little too close to boiling, Gale stopped eating Sae's stews, convinced she was a witch serving him love potions. Of course, Katniss was oblivious to the whole change, a fact that only delighted Sae to no end.

"Have you seen her?"

Gale frowns into the last spoonful of stew he's about to swallow. Suddenly, his throat feels thick, his tongue sticky, and he doesn't trust his voice to respond. Instead, he pulls at the collar of his shirt revealing Katniss' arrow's kiss.

Sae's eyes widen briefly before she cackles in glee. Her amusement annoys Gale. He feels the blood rush to his face, his jaw clenched against the painful memory. Whatever grimace contorts his face makes Sae immediately stop laughing. She comes to stand before him, one gnarled arthritic hand settling on his shoulder. Gale knows she means it to be a comfort, but Sae's open pity has the exact opposite effect. He shrugs it off brusquely, and thinks he should apologize, but the heat pulsing in her wound sears the words into nothing.

Fortunately, Sae doesn't take his anger personally.

"She'll come around, Gale," she says.

"Willing to bet a bowl of stew on that?" Gale grumbles.

Sae's lower lip pushes up into her upper in a flat half-smile.

"She will. Katniss misses you. She just doesn't know it yet. Now finish that beer, or I'll have to serve it to someone else."

Reaching for his plate, she shifts from caring old companion back to cantankerous cauldron cook in a snap, leaving Gale to contemplate her words over the almost warm dregs of his drink.

* * *

On his way back home, Gale's phone rings.

"Hawthorne."

"At ease, soldier," Paylor says. "You Twelve-types are always so serious."

Gale genuinely smiles at this. It wasn't often that Paylor was in a joking mood, and he hoped she had news that paralleled her joyous emotions.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam President?" he replies.

"Unfortunately, this call is to report our latest intelligence on Loyalist rumblings," Paylor says, her voice dropping into the solemn tone Gale knew all too well.

"Rumblings?"

"Intelligence intercepted Loyalist chatter detailing a gathering of some well-known sect leaders. It seems the meeting is to plan a series of coordinate attacks to halt the Rebuild. Due to its high level of publicity, we fear that District Twelve is most likely an intended target."

Gale stops walking, glancing around him, and eyeing the few people around him with suspicion. Satisfied that no one seems to notice him at all, he drops his voice and continues walking.

"How sure is Intelligence about Twelve?" Gale asks.

"About 90%."

Gale's left hand clenches with a bolt of frustration. The last thing he needed was to draw unwanted attention and violence to a community that was just getting back to its feet. But the infrastructure and population of 12 was still by far the greatest victim of the war, and unfortunately all of Panem – especially Loyalist forces – knew it.

"Gale?" Paylor asks, when the moment of silence carries on a little too long.

"Yeah, I heard," Gale says. He stows his emotions with some effort. "Any specific rumblings? Locations? Dates?" He swallows. "People?"

The pause before Paylor answers is almost as stinging as Sae's pity squeeze on his shoulder.

"No, which is why I am warning you to be vigilant. We cannot afford to halt our progress because a few individuals can't seem to move on from the grudges of the past."

Gale scoffs and wonders if Paylor realizes how her words sound in his ears.

"I'm sorry Gale. I know this assignment must be difficult." Paylor pauses, almost as if she can see the sudden unchecked emotion that strains Gale's face. "I know you have a lot on your plate and I am sending a squad to Twelve for extra security. We can't afford to have your attention split and weakened."

Gale flinches a little, but the soldier in him cannot argue with Paylor's logic. Extra security always drew unwanted attention and the last thing he needed was for District 12 to find itself once again the focus of a nation. But if he refused the help – which Paylor would shoot down his refusal anyway – and something happened to the people here… to his family…

"Understood. I'm assuming it's Mason's team you're sending."

"Hawthorne, you never cease to amaze me at how you can read my moves before I make them," Paylor says, a smile returning to her voice. "Thank god you are on our side."

"I appreciate it, some people don't see it that way," Gale says, his tone bitter.

He can hear the dead air on the line and knows she's pondering whether to ask. He already knows that she eventually will.

"How's Katniss? Have you spoken with her yet?"

Gale sighs heavily. The wound on his neck throbs as if recognizing its significance. When he rubs a hand over it, the nascent skin stings at his coarseness.

"She's Katniss."

"I see," Paylor says quietly. Gale is thankful that she doesn't press the issue. "Johanna's team will arrive in two days. I'll be in touch if anything more develops."

"Thank you," Gale says. "I will too."

"Be safe, Hawthorne."

The line goes dead.

* * *

When she walks through the door to their Victor House, the first thing Katniss notices is the broken glass scattered all over the floor. The second thing she notices is the air her hand grabs when she reflexively reaches for an arrow. Crouching to the ground, she glances to the windows. Both are intact and standing like sentries at their posts.

Then she sees the flowers, the golden primroses blown apart and bleeding water, mixed among the shards of glass.

She can't tear her eyes away from the petals of yellow that become strands and the glass opacifies to bone. Her ears feel like they're still ringing from the blasts and her limbs feel dead with leaden weight. She waits patiently for the darkness of unconsciousness to claim her.

It never comes.

Katniss takes a slow step forward. She hears her booted foot grinds the broken vase into the hardwood floors. The rushing in her ears fades and she hears movement coming from the kitchen.

"Peeta?" she calls.

The movement stops momentarily and resumes a second later with the same intense rhythm.

Katniss rounds the corner to see the remains of Peeta's dinner smeared across the counter and cabinets. He scrubs furiously at the dark red sauce and mutters to himself, although she can't make out the words until she kneels close.

"…from District 12. I survived the Hunger Games. Snow is dead…"

"Peeta," she says gently, trying to break through his diatribe. "Peeta, what happened?"

He looks up, blue eyes hazy and unfocused. Katniss feels her muscles tense, preparing for a relapse and hating that she's trained for such a response.

Peeta blinks and the haze disappears completely. She suppresses a sigh of relief and the tension in her thighs and calves uncoils.

"I'm sorry, I was trying to clean this before you got back…" Peeta starts to explain. His hands tremble when he reaches for the discarded dustpan.

"No, Peeta," she says. Her hands still his attempts to clean and squeezes his fingers in hers. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

He nods robotically at first, and then with more conviction as the remnants of his attack fully dissipate.

"What happened?"

"A bird… I was cooking dinner," Peeta starts and turns looking towards the kitchen windows. The curtains sway gently in the breeze. "And I opened the window to let the evening air in. And this bird just flew in and started flapping its wings in my face. Then I woke up to this."

"I saw the entrance," she prompts.

Peeta shrugs in response. "I'm not sure how long it lasted." He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shivering in exhaustion.

Katniss folds him into her arms, whispering comfort to his blond hair until the kitchen darkens around them.

_~Fin_


End file.
